Murder in Hampstead by Sabina Manea (read this if txt) 📕

you, the mistress seems a bit older than the wife, which is not so common.’

Lucia had just spotted this, and an incipient thought began to take shape.

They didn’t have to wait long for an indication of the nature of the relationship between John Walker and his host. There was no obvious kiss, only a tender arm around her waist as they went in. That they were intimate was unmistakable.

‘There you go. Now we find out who she is.’ Lucia whipped out her phone.

‘How? I could phone the station and ask someone to look into her.’

Lucia laughed at his technological ineptitude. ‘You don’t need to call the station. Land Registry records are publicly available. For a few pounds, we’ll know exactly what she’s called.’ She typed in the address and waited patiently for the title register to download.

‘She could be renting.’ Carliss was evidently a little embarrassed at his own lack of initiative.

‘Nobody rents a house like that. Besides, have you seen her? She hardly looks like the renting type. Here it is. One owner – Frieda Marie Alexander. You won’t believe how much this place cost. Now let’s see what she’s been up to.’ Lucia typed in her name. Her supposition was instantly confirmed.

‘What is it?’

‘I suspected as much.’

They pored over the screen, eyes widening as they read on.

Mrs Justice Alexander belonged to a rare and readily identifiable breed. She was one of the few women judges to sit in the Commercial Court, where John Walker primarily plied his trade. Lucia read out the entry: ‘Born in Tokyo to a British diplomat and a Japanese hotel heiress. One of the youngest women to take silk.’ In the official photo, her delicate face and billowing, expertly tailored dress ensured she stood out in a sea of greying men.

‘You know what you said about money and power? Seems like you got it the wrong way round at the outset.’

Lucia admitted she had. ‘I should have known better. He was unlikely to swap his own housewife for another.’

The newly revealed information was dynamite. Lucia made a mental note to check how many cases Frieda Alexander had sat on that John Walker had won. Either way, career suicide loomed for both parties. How intelligent people could be so utterly stupid was beyond her – but then, in their boundless arrogance, they must have assumed they were invincible – a major defect that came with the professional territory.

‘He’s in a lot of trouble, that’s for sure. Titillating as this may be, what’s it got to do with our murder?’ said Carliss.

Lucia could tell the inspector was having more fun than he was willing to admit. ‘Nothing, perhaps. For now, at least, it’s just a useful fact to bank. You look like you could do with some rest. I’ll take you home.’

For once, it was Carliss who was being looked after, which was unprecedented. Given the pain had started again on the left side of his head, he was grateful. Lucia promised to drive more smoothly, and before long they were on the edges of Regent’s Park, back to the familiarity of North London. Carliss had dozed off. She touched his arm gently to wake him up. ‘You’re still unwell. Don’t do any more work. And that’s an order.’

‘OK, boss. So far, we’ve got a grieving housekeeper, a so-called nephew cut out of the inheritance, a shifty PA, an inscrutable doctor and a cheating husband. Oh, and a long-suffering wife who may or may not know what working after hours really means. Who’s the killer?’

‘Go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.’

She watched him go in and close the door behind him. Now that he’d been safely delivered, she needed some time to think. Her head was spinning with the attributes of their six suspects, but nothing fell into place. She would have to sleep on it, and in the meantime, she would drop off the van at home and head to the Red Lion. There was no trouble in the world that a large glass of chilled Burgundy couldn’t alleviate.

* * *

The boozer was respectably populated for a Monday night. Come to think of it, Lucia had never seen it empty. Bills, children, partners and overbearing parents could all be momentarily eradicated by a few cold pints. She approached the bar and sat next to a young lad she hadn’t seen there before. He was well bedded on the stool and fixed her with an uncensored suggestive expression.

‘Alright, love? Here on your own?’

‘Save your breath, I’m not on the pull. Hi, Becky.’ She indicated her usual with a raised finger and gave the unsuspecting lad a condescending look.

Becky, resplendent in a low-cut top, watched the exchange with an expectant look, hoping for entertainment.

‘Oh, don’t be like that. Give us a smile.’ He persevered, despite the unequivocal response to his advances. There was something off about him that intoxication alone didn’t explain. He stared at her with enlarged pupils surrounded by reddened whites. His breathing was visibly shallow, and his fingers shook on the beer glass.

Lucia brushed it off. His health wasn’t her business. ‘Pack it in, or I’ll give you a slap, and you’re never coming back here again.’

He grinned in vain for a moment longer and turned away, despondent at his failed romantic overture. She savoured the first sip of the buttery wine and blinked. She couldn’t stop turning over in her head what Carliss had uncovered at Morris Llewellyn. Nearly all the pieces pointing at Adam as the main suspect were in place. What she couldn’t quite reconcile was the role that Mrs Byrne played in the whole charade. One to squeeze out of her, if she was at all amenable to another session in the makeshift confessional. Mrs Byrne was perfectly capable of holding back information so long as nobody asked any direct questions.

The noisy